4am.
I’ve been at this blank page for over an hour, staring at the little straight line that ticks in and out of sight – all in beats of eighths as it waits for the letters to be typed out.
I’m sitting on my chair, my bed in front of me, and a soft lamp to the corner that only lights up half the desk. I hear nothing but the echoes of the water heater crackling in the distance: a reminder that I am indeed, alone.
I look up at my bed again, my eyes begging me to sleep, and yet I know that if I don’t write this out, I. won’t. get. rest.
Yesterday, my 61 year old mother told me she wanted to kill herself.